The room shimmered a little and Anne had this feeling she’d had before. As if she’d lifted out of her body, was floating above and looking down at herself, at the imperious Kate, and the defeated and slouching Hugh. She wondered how the scene had played out last night. Not that it mattered. He was never going to leave his wife, his cushy job, their children, the world of wealthy friends and successful colleagues he inhabited.
Well. Let’s cut through it, can we?
It was that easy. She named her price. It was a high one, but there was no negotiation. She was given the business card of their lawyer, told that there was an appointment tomorrow at 9:00, that she should not miss it under any circumstances.
“And that concludes our business,” said Kate. “Allow me to show you out.”
Anne took the long walk back down the hall, feeling eyes on her, and packed her things; just what she’d carried in that morning in her bag. She’d never had any personal items on her desk—no framed pictures, or pretty knickknacks.
Hugh stayed in Kate’s office, as Kate discreetly escorted Anne from the building.
On the street, in the unforgiving light of the bright winter sun, Anne could see the fine lines on the older woman’s face. The skin on her neck was crepey. Anne observed just the very slightest shake in her hands. So, she was human. Not like Anne, who still felt nothing except some vague satisfaction. It wasn’t quite the payout for which she’d hoped. But it would do.
“Let’s never see each other again,” said Kate, still holding the door handle. She couldn’t step away from the fortress, could she? In a street fight, she could never best Anne and they both knew it.
Anne nodded, tried to look chastened but couldn’t keep the corner of her mouth from turning up in a smile. The other woman had already disappeared back into the lobby, the darkness swallowing her thin frame.
It was true. Kate would never see Anne again. Because when she came, she’d come from behind. And Kate? She would never know what hit her.
During the long train ride home, Anne dissected the job—what she’d done right, what she’d done wrong. By the time she got in the car that she had parked at the isolated station, she had a clear list of mistakes, and areas for improvement. Her biggest errors were poor planning—she’d actually started the job wanting to work. She’d fallen into the other thing. So, there hadn’t been enough recon. Then, she’d let things drag on too long. The truth was that she enjoyed Hugh, the luxuries of being his mistress. She’d lost control of the situation. Still, the score was good. A bit messy. But Pop would be happy enough with the outcome.
She drove, out into the woods, down the long winding drive that led to the house. The sky was a bruised purple-gray, the trees winter-black, some snow still clinging to the ground, to the branches. She hated winter, the quiet of it, the emptiness, the waiting of it. Hugh had promised her sunshine and cocktails, a tropical escape. She could feel the warm salt water on her skin, taste the tang of a fruity drink. She’d have let him take her away. It was all part of it, let it ride until it ran out.
The house sat low and dark, nestled into the trees, as she brought the car to a stop and killed the engine. She sat in the gloaming, let all traces of Anne fall away. Then she exited the vehicle and walked up the stairs to the porch, unlocking and pushing in the front door.
“I’m home,” she said as she stepped through the front door. The wood floor creaked beneath her feet.
“You’re early. What happened?”
“Things didn’t go as planned.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t worry, Pop,” she said, shedding her coat, dropping her bag. “It was a decent score. And I already have something else going.”
“I never worry about you, kitten. It’s the other guy who’d better be watching his back.”
“You know me better than anyone.”
“That’s true. That’s very true.”
Her phone pinged and, when she saw who it was, she felt an intense wave of annoyance. The missives that came through were typically whiny, panicky.
I don’t want to do this anymore.
It’s wrong.
Don’t you ever get tired?
I think things have gone south here. I want to leave.
She didn’t even bother answering, just went upstairs and changed out of her work clothes into more comfortable attire—jeans, a soft long-sleeved T-shirt, her leather jacket, boots.
“You seem angry,” said Pop when she came back down. He was sitting on the couch, the back of his balding head to her. “It’s never a good idea to act out of anger. That’s when we make mistakes.”
“I’m not angry,” she said.
Don’t you ever get tired?
She did. Sometimes she got very tired.
EIGHT
Geneva
Geneva hated the way winter afternoons started to darken around three. As the light leaked out of the sky, a kind of heaviness descended on her spirit. She turned on the lights in the kitchen, and loaded the dishwasher. The boys, sitting at the table with their snacks, were always a little cranky after school, but more so today. Stephen was sulking. Oliver, as usual, was bent over his book. Something about the energy of the house was just—off.
When she’d arrived that morning, the Murphy family was already gone. She’d used her keys to get in, found a note in the kitchen.
“We all had to leave early this morning,” it read in a scrawling hand—Selena’s or Graham’s, she couldn’t tell. “Please pick up the boys at the usual time.”
The house had been a mess, with breakfast dishes still on the table, the boys’ beds unmade. Not the usual state of affairs. Usually, the boys were eating their eggs and toast at the kitchen table when she arrived. She’d find them dressed in their uniforms, hair brushed, bags and lunch sacks waiting neatly by the door.
Selena liked to do all of those things before work; Geneva knew it made her feel like she’d taken care of things before she headed out for the day. She put notes in the boys’ lunchboxes, special treats sometimes—not too sugary. She was plugged in during the day, always calling right as the boys got home. Available if they wanted her.
It was the complete opposite at the Tuckers’—the kids ran wild, no limits on devices, neither parent wanted to be bothered during the day unless it was an emergency. The Tucker boys would still be in pajamas, hopped up on some sugary cereal when Geneva arrived in the morning.
She didn’t feel as bad about what had happened at the Tuckers’。
But Selena Murphy was a loving, present mom. A faithful wife. A fair and kind employer. She didn’t deserve what was going on behind her back.
Geneva immediately got to cleaning—making the beds, throwing in a load of wash, then the kitchen. It was intimate, wasn’t it, this position? Handling people’s clothes, tucking in their sheets, clearing the plates from which they’d eaten. She thought about that, as she wiped down the counter, how close she was, and yet—not. A paid employee; someone who might be fired at will. As intimate in some ways as family, but in no way as permanent. Expendable.
That word was in her head when she’d noticed a brown dot on the counter. She walked over to work on it. What was it? It was only when it came up on the cloth that she realized.